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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29483574">Diner</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_black_coffee/pseuds/one_black_coffee'>one_black_coffee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Diners, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, i don't know what this is, i guess, stan centric, they're so fucking awkward</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:09:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29483574</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_black_coffee/pseuds/one_black_coffee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie told me he would work with me. He told me I wouldn’t be stuck alone in some cheap 24 hour diner on the outskirts of town all night long. We got these jobs to study away from distractions. I should have known better. With Richie there are always distractions.  Bev said she’d join us but her dad lost his shit when she told him. Some nights she sneaks out with her textbooks and comes down on her bike. Those nights are either the most productive nights or the least.</p><p>--------------------------</p><p>Stan works at a 24 hour diner and one night a very cute someone happens to wander in</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Diner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Richie told me he would work with me. He told me I wouldn’t be stuck alone in some cheap 24 hour diner on the outskirts of town all night long. We got these jobs to study away from distractions. I should have known better. With Richie there are always distractions.  Bev said she’d join us but her dad lost his shit when she told him. Some nights she sneaks out with her textbooks and comes down on her bike. Those nights are either the most productive nights or the least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most of the time, the three of us spend the majority of the night bent over the counter reading, Richie or me leaving occasionally to make it seem like we’re actually doing our jobs. Other times, Richie convinces Bev to go out and get high with him and then everything goes to hell. On our third night of Bev coming down, Richie pulled a blunt out of his stupid apron pocket and, being the exhausted geniuses we were, Bev, Rich, and I took turns passing the joint back and forth until the we were all so stoned Bev got angry at the lights for screaming, Richie tried to steal all the ice cream from the freezer, and I just sat on the floor watching the chaos.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, Richie and Bev split the weed and I make sure we don’t lose our jobs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are just about a billion ways to distract Richie Tozier. Beverly Marsh and the promise of a shared joint is just one. Another is by allowing him to choose the radio station- he goes between terribly sappy love songs and classic rock that makes him forget he’s working, instead choosing to dance around with the mops and brooms. I swear, that boy acts high even when he isn’t. That’s probably a symptom of something. Dumb bitch disorder, maybe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight’s latest distraction just happens to be a shortass wearing the brightest pink sweater I have ever seen wrapped around his tiny shoulders. Though, based on the way Richie continues to throw himself all over Eddie’s arms, I doubt Richie cares too much about what clothes Eddie is wearing. Still, a calm baby blue might be better suited to a 2am meeting under lights that make even pastels glow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your life?” Eddie’s perched himself on one of the blue leather stools placed around the bar. One of his legs is curled under himself and he’s got his elbows resting on the checkerboard bar top. I just cleaned those. I should yell at him. He’s spending too much time with the human garbage pile and getting messy. I suppose I should be happy Eddie’s loosening up… But he’s also making more jobs for me. So no, I am not happy for him at this moment. “I didn’t come here to be harassed by the waiters, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know where Richie went. I haven’t been paying attention to their squabbling since the first joke Rich made about fucking Eddie’s mom. That must have been at least a half hour ago. At this point it’s just white noise- which is better than Richie’s terrible music- while I mindlessly clean the same spot on the counter over and over. But it got quieter just a minute ago. Eddie yelling about being harassed is the first I’ve heard from either of them in some amount of time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s got Richie’s paper uniform hat clutched in one of his hands but I don’t see Richie himself. The last time I remember seeing him, he was fiddling with the dial on the radio over on the other side of the counter. That could have been awhile ago, though. For the most part I’ve been alternating between running through my science midterm notes and reading the list of ice cream flavors on the front cover of the menu Eddie threw at Richie when he walked in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Eds. It’s not harassment if it’s your boyfriend.” Richie reappears, a broom in hand. Did they break something? I would have heard if they did... Maybe. I’ve learned to tune them out whenever I can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s still harassment, numb nuts,” Eddie says. “Hey, get the fuck off me, you overgrown fly!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s leaning over Eddie, trying, I assume, to kiss Eddie’s cheek while Eddie shoves his chest and kicks at his shins. The broom has been discarded in one of the booths. “You love me and you know it, Eddie babes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really don’t. You smell like grease and you look like you were attacked by a squirrel on your way here.” We have a deep fryer in the back. Neither Richie nor I is supposed to be using it unless a customer comes in and asks for something deep fried. Needless to say, Richie “didn’t hear Mr. Jacobs” when he told us to stay away and went ahead and made himself a disgustingly greasy batch of fries. And Richie just generally has the appearance of someone who was chased and attacked by a squirrel. I blame it on the hair. Bev says it’s a combination of the hair, the tape on his glasses--- which he broke yet again last night after betting me five bucks he could throw a rubber ball at the radio and make it change stations and catch the ball again. He got hit in the face and I got five bucks. Double win for me--- and his tendency to only wear ripped clothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The only thing that attacked me last night was--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I swear to god, Rich if you say ‘your mom’ I am leaving you.” Richie still has one hand on the back of Eddie’s stool and the other on the counter while Eddie has both of his pushing against Richie but the tall idiot stops trying to invade Eddie’s space for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did-- did you just make… a mom joke… for me?” Richie’s eyes are wide and his lips keep twitching up in the dumbest, sappiest smile he reserves for Eddie. Disgusting. Truly repulsive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie quickly begins fumbling around for a way out. He even glances over at me but I just shake my head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve done this to yourself, Kasprack,” I say. No matter how Eddie responds, Richie will drag him out sooner or later, leaving me alone in the diner yet again. I would complain more if I cared enough. The diner smells like grease and sour milk on the best of nights but it’s also quiet enough so that I can do my work or read or just fuck around however I’d like--- the security system here is a joke; Richie set fire to a rag right out in the front of the diner and not a single alarm went off. Plus, they’re happy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eds, I… I don’t even know w-what to say.” I know what he wants to say. He wants to tell Eddie he loves him. Richie’s spent more than enough nights ranting about how bad he wants to tell Eddie how he feels. Which is ridiculous. Eddie obviously loves him, too. Richie’s just blind as shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you look at him? Eddie, you’ve got him sounding like a child who was just told he could buy all the candy he wants.” I must admit, he looks the part, too. He’s stopped fighting Eddie all together, too stunned to do more than gape. Love sick idiot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks over the counter at me. “He looks like a fool, Stan. And he sounds like one, too.” The fact that Richie’s no longer pressing himself onto Eddie should mean Eddie’s taken his hands off Richie’s chest but he hasn’t. I don’t know if either of the geniuses notice, though. Eddie’s got both of his hands wrapped around the straps of Richie’s apron.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I resent that, Edward.” There still isn’t the usual Trashmouth dramatism in his voice. Jeeze, if he acts like this when Eddie makes a mom joke, I don’t want to witness what he’s like when he finds out Eddie’s only a little bitch about the nicknames because he secretly loves them--- this is a fact I found out after a particularly long night in my basement consisting of Eddie and me passing a bottle of cheap vodka back and forth while Eddie ranted about Richie; “He never shuts up! he smells like weed and dirt! he’s an oblivious asshole, I mean…”. And I stared at the ceiling tiles, drunk, angry at them for trying to impersonate clouds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie huffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you resent that just as much as you resent my mom’s ass.” I could do without Eddie’s attempts to make crude jokes--- he isn’t very good. He’s never been good. However, It appears as though my presence in this ugly ass diner has been forgotten as Eddie no longer shifts his gaze from Richie to me from time to time when he wants support.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie groans, making me nearly gag. I would rather sit through an hour of Eddie trying to make jokes than ever hear my childhood best friend groan every again. “Eddie, you better stop saying those things or I think I’m gonna have to kiss you.” Richie’s getting closer and closer to Eddie and Eddie isn’t putting a stop to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright,” I break in before I’m subjected to another one of their make out sessions, “Just get out of here before I have to spray you two with the spray bottle like a couple of cats, ya weirdos.” That gets their attention. Eddie turns bright red and Richie grins at me before yanking Eddie out of his seat and towards the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan The Man, you are the greatest! The greatest, I tell ya!” Richie yells as he pulls off his apron and drops it on the counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shouldn’t we stay? I don’t want to leave Stan here all alone…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it, Eddie. I get more work done when Richie isn’t here being an obscene asshole, anyway.” Maybe something interesting will actually happen without Richie scaring away all the storylines by being obnoxiously loud. Maybe I’d meet someone and fall in love. A nice, pretty, Jewish girl to make my parents happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s good that I don’t meet anyone.</span>
</p><p><span>Richie grabs Eddie’s hand and pulls him out the door, stopping only to wave a goodbye and grin at me. I flip him off. Then the door clicks shut with a jungle of the golden bell and I’m alone. The bell echos around the empty diner, mixing with the tune of an old love song--- </span><em><span>My Girl.</span></em> <em><span>The Temptations</span></em><span>. I never cared for this one. Richie loves it. Which makes sense. Richie falls for every cliche in the book. Richie himself is one giant cliche--- so is Eddie, I suppose. </span></p><p>
  <span>Our boss, Mr. Jacobs, wants us to keep the theme of the diner and listen to the 50s classic rock station all night but Richie claims he’ll stick his head in the deep fryer if he has to listen to more than half an hour of 50s classic rock. So, after the initial ten minutes of work each night, once the two girls on shift before us leave and our uniforms have been put on, Richie skips over to the radio in the shape of a jukebox to click the knob until one of his favorite stations is humming quietly in the background. He has such a shit taste in music.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The high, whiny voice of the lead singer always bothered me. Bev says it’s because Eddie’s own high, whiny voice has set me off from any and all voices similar to his. Maybe she’s right, maybe she isn’t. Maybe I just don’t like the song.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I put down the rag I’d been wiping in circles and walk over to the radio. The clacking of my shoes is muffled against the linoleum floors and cracking leather booth seats. The first time Bev and I walked in here I fell in love. It was months ago, before school started and we all turned into drugged out zombies again. We came during the afternoon, when the sun shone through the windows at just the right angle to make the floors glimmer in soft waves, the mirror behind the counter shimmer in all the right ways, and the plastic trays being carried by each waiter seem less like a cheap way to serve food and more like a perfect way to capture the 50s. Everyone looked happy to be there, all smiles and chipper voices. Bev and I were led over to a booth by the window by a perky girl in a pink uniform carrying menus under her arm and smiling at us. Her pigtails bounced as she walked us to our seats, turning around now and then to look at us, smiling at Bev just a little longer and brighter than she did at me. A different waiter tried multiple times to make eye contact with me--- blue eyes that glinted in the sunlight when it caught him right, and slicked back black hair under his uniform hat--- but I kept finding excuses to look away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girls were pretty enough. No need for any of… that. Actually good music could be heard just over the clatter of silverware, plates, conversations, and cars driving past outside. Bev and I took our place in the booth, taking in the setting and talking amongst ourselves. We had all passed the seemingly sad little diner sitting right off a mostly deserted road in a gravel pit at least a dozen times--- down the road just a few minutes more is a rather unsupervised cinema where Rich, Beverly, and I can watch movies while getting high without repercussions. Bev and I had only entered the building because we had hoped some old waitress, with a bad spray tan and a face drooping with wrinkles, might spare some smokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>During the day the diner looked so perfect. Like someone had dug into their mind and pulled out a little dream in mint condition. Everything was bright in a soft, wonderful way; warm in a refreshing, dreamy way. It smelled just like someone had been making fresh strawberry milkshakes all day long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At two in the morning the diner loses its charm. Hell, at 11pm it loses its charm. Instead of golden rays of sun filling the room with beautiful light, it’s painfully white fluorescent lights buzzing and giving me a killer headache. No more warmth seeping into the leather and linoleum, just sticky heat from the crack under the door during the summer or bone prickingly chilled air. Gone is the scent of fresh strawberries and ice cream, replaced by grease being cleaned out of the deep fryer and sour milk being poured down the drain. We thought getting jobs here at night would mean sneaking free food, joking around, soaking in the dreamy haze of a diner in the middle of the night. Really, getting jobs here has meant being dead tired, not wanting to touch any of the left over food, and getting sick off the sounds of buzzing from multiple electric devices.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie makes it impossible to focus on anything since he always seems to be making noise somehow, but without him it’s too quiet. Once Richie’s left to get high with Bev or to do god knows what with Eddie, I’m left with the infernal buzz of the lights that have no place in a diner, being better suited to a hospital wing. I swear, I’ll be met in hell by the sounds of these damn lights. More often than not I end up on the floor trying to drown out the buzzing with music so as to avoid emptying my guts right on the diner floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I flick between a number of songs on the radio--- Billy Joel’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>We Didn’t Start the Fire</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kokomo</span>
  </em>
  <span> by The Beach Boys, even some drowsy song that sounded like it could have been made for some romance feature film--- before settling on a song I haven’t heard before but I rather like the tune. It’s upbeat. Swung. There’s a fair amount of edgy trumpet blasting through solos that caught my attention. It’s much better than what Richie has been playing throughout the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stand with my fingers still lightly holding onto the knob, my eyes closed, listening to the music and swaying slightly, until the song finishes. The next song sounds nearly identical--- the same brassy sound honking out solos left and right with another lead singer who sounds like he’s got a whole big band right in his vocal chords. I turn the volume up until I can no longer feel my head throbbing with each pulse from the lights and take my fingers off the knob and go back to the counter, picking up my rag and a spray bottle from underneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is how I like to spend the nights Richie is away. More often than not, I can’t seem to find good music nor the will to move off the floor, but when I do… Richie would never let me hear the end of it if he saw me---- dancing about the diner, singing into the spray bottle. He’d find a way to video tape me and ridicule me. He’s an ass that way, really. So when he’s around I normally sit and throw shit at him while he makes a mess or does something mildly destructive. When it’s just the two of us, it’s like the old days. Before we met Bev and Eddie. It’s nice to be alone with Richie again, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t miss those days too much. Any more time of just the two of us and I’m fairly certain Richie would be drugged out of his mind and I might be right there with him. For all we know, we’d both be dead at the bottom of some ditch. Bev goes right along with our bad decisions but at least she has less of a death wish. And Eddie keeps us all from dying. He keeps Richie far enough away from the edge just because Richie can’t keep himself away from the shorter boy. And if Richie isn’t bullying us into doing dumb things, then we won’t die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not all together, at least. I still find my way to the bad decisions by myself regardless of what the others are doing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I do really enjoy nights like tonight. Sure, I would rather be in bed, reading or researching different birds, but, since I’m not, I enjoy being here. I’m not making much money, but I’m also doing next to nothing. Hardly any customers ever come in this late at night. I think most of the people who pass by assume, regardless of the 24 hour sign out front, that this is some sort of weed plant. I’m basically just being paid to wipe down a few surfaces and do whatever I want. Kinda sweet, if you ask me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can feel the sweat collecting on my shoulders and just under my hat on my hairline. There’s an AC unit in the back but all it does is cool down the kitchen a bit. Rich and I propped the door open on a pan that looked like it hadn’t been used in ages the other night, assuming letting the tiny room air out would allow us to cool down. We were so wrong. The tiny bit of cool air we had managed to trap in the diner escaped quickly and was replaced with the stifling night air. We spent the rest of our shift dunking our heads under water and spraying each other with the spray bottle. Eddie offered to bring in a fan for us but it looks like he forgot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heat isn’t going to stop me from having a good time, though. Good times have been getting rarer and rarer so when I do find myself able to move and let my mind drift to happy places, I take advantage. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t know just how long I spend bouncing around to the music.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, I made my way back to the counter and put down the spray bottle and rag, not even bothering to pretend like I’m working. If </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>get fired for not working, Richie’s sure as hell screwed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything runs together at a certain point. My lazy footsteps overlap with the quick hops and the walting between booths. One song that’s got a jazzy beat blends right in with another that’s got a sultry singer--- Elvis?--- singing about some sad love story. The world outside has stopped existing all together and the only things still alive in my world are the music and me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lights never stop their flickering, I’m sure, but the mind splitting buzz and flicker only exists if I open my eyes, which I avoid doing. The smells of the diner dissipate while I keep my mouth open, singing along- terribly- to every lyric I can predict. The music is the only thing I can trust. It leads me around the world, around different emotions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I could fall in love tonight. I swear, I really could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything exists only if I choose to let it. My need for a job because it’s getting hard to get out of bed anymore doesn’t exist because I don’t want it to. The assholes at school who won’t relent with the teasing and name calling don’t exist because I don’t want them to. What everyone seems to see in me despite my best efforts to make sure my eyes linger only on the cheerleaders in tiny skirts and low cut shirts doesn’t exist because I don’t want it to. The fact that I’m slowly being edged out of my only friend group doesn't exist because--- you guessed right--- I don’t fucking want it to. That stupid bell above the diner door that randomly pings sometimes--- Richie likes to try and freak me out by saying it’s a ghost customer coming in and if I don’t wait on them they’ll haunt me--- doesn’t exist either because I. Don’t. Want. It. To.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m so completely alone…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until I’m not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I see him before I even hear him. A pale, skinny boy standing in front of the door. He’s holding a black backpack and staring at me. His eyes look like they’re bugging out of his head while his lips look like they’re trying to recede into his mouth. I stare back at the boy. I should be greeting him and offering him a menu but holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> he just walked in on me dancing around like a fool. And the music is still much too loud. Mr. Jacobs would have an aneurysm if he could see this scene.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit, Stan, get ahold of yourself. Play it off like nothing happened. Stop staring at the kid and get back to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t see anything. Got it?” I say. Real polite, I know. Being polite is a specialty of mine--- I blame it on too many years with Trashmouth Tozier. And my parents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other boy just nods and looks around for a second before scurrying off to a corner booth and sitting down. I hurry to turn down the radio and snatch one of the laminated menus off the greeter’s stand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chose the booth in the far back corner, sitting with his back against the wall. The backpack I thought was black but is actually a deep navy blue is tucked up against the window. There’s a notebook, bound in light brown leather with a little dear carved into the front, laying on the table top next to a clunky looking laptop. It’s got a charging cord running back into the backpack and headphone wires running to the boy himself. He’s got little blue headphones clutched in his hand and his eyes fixed on me again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, hi,” I say. He smiles in response. It’s nervous and fidgety. His fingers keep twitching the headphones in his hand and I can see his leg bouncing under the table. “Can I get you anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um…” He looks down at my hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh shit, right. Oh fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be swearing. Shit. I’m so sorry if I offended you or anything. Fuck. Shit. Fu- you know what, I’m sorry. Here.” I drop the menu on the table and walk away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holy. Fucking. Shitballs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I am a true genius. Nothing but the smartest being alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I should go back and apologize for that--- and my introduction--- but I’m not going to. Not until it looks like he’s ready to order. Maybe not even then. Maybe I can just hide in the kitchen and he’ll go away. Mr. Jacobs would kill me, but I’m sort of feeling like death might be a better option than going back to humiliate myself more in front of that guy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That very attractive guy, I might add. Damn. I think my brain is short circuiting from just looking at him. That or the humiliation of a stranger seeing me dancing around </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t even get a good look at the kid and here I am. I’m torn between wanting to go back to his booth just to get a better view and never wanting to see him again. I’ve retreated to the kitchen to hide from… the opportunity that’s been created for my idiot self to get fired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck this kitchen is disgusting. I can’t cook to save my life so Richie mainly handles the cooking while I clean. We divide whatever customers do show up between us. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smell is even worse back here. The heat isn’t so bad but the deep fryer is still going which is stirring up all sorts of smells that don’t reach the front. And the music doesn’t make it back here so I’m stuck with not only the buzzing of the lights but also of the fridge, the freezer, the fryer, and the soft serve machine. My head is going to explode if I have to spend the rest of the night back here. How long is the rest of the night even? My phone is under the counter and I don’t actually know if there are any clocks here. I could probably crawl out front, grab my phone, and not be seen by the incredibly attractive boy. That sounds like a plan. Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is why Richie shouldn’t leave me alone here. I mean, that kid could be a serial killer--- I’m pretty sure I’d let him kill me, honestly. If it means being that much closer to him…--- or he could be a perfectly normal human being and I am not prepared to handle a normal person. Neither is Richie but at least Richie has no shame. I should strangle Richie for this. Leaving me to make out with his boyfriend instead of rescuing me from the nightmare of having a highly attractive person in the diner with me. Even if I did tell him he could leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We need to wash this floor better. It’s disgusting. I’m sitting on it with my head resting against the wall and I can feel the grease creating a film on my fingers. I’ll make Richie do that next time. We also really need a fan. I’m going to have a heat stroke back here. I guess if I stay low enough the boy--- I should figure out his name. Or at least something to call him. Cute Guy seems too forward--- won’t be able to see me hiding out behind the counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I push myself back onto my hands and knees, curling my hands into fists so I don’t have to touch the floor with my palms, and crawl back towards the doorway--- that’s really just an arch with a distinct lack of a door--- that connects the kitchen to behind the counter. This place is so gross. How do we not see this mess while we’re working? I’ve passed so many dead beetles lying on their backs along the wall and multiple crumbs just waiting for a mouse to eat them. If the lights and smells don’t make me puke, sitting on this floor just might.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“H-H-Hello?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My eyes shoot up from the floor to see Cute Guy--- fuck being subtle--- standing at the counter. He’s looking back down at me. That nervous smile is playing at his lips again while his eyes—- brown? green? I can’t tell from down here--- dart from me to the floor to the menus to me to something else to something else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stand up, brushing my hands against my apron, though the lingering coating of grease isn’t coming off so easily, and laugh as if me crawling on the floor like a complete freak is just a funny little joke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” I say. “I was just… um….” There is no exploration I can possible create that will make me not sound like a fucking idiot. So I don’t. “Can I get you something?” We’re face to face now. I was right to lose my mind earlier. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Damn.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cute Guy smiles again, looking me in the eye before focusing on my hands. “I’m s-sorry, can I j-j-just get a g-g-g…” He screws his eyes shut for a moment before trying again. “A g-g-'' The sound gets stuck in his throat. It almost looks painful, the way he’s struggling to spit out the rest of the word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know if I should cut in and offer something so he doesn’t have to keep talking. I don’t mean to offend him right after I’ve probably made him think he’s in a diner with a lunatic. He’s shaking. His hands and everything. I can’t imagine he’s much more comfortable here than I am--- though for vastly different reasons, I must assume. “Do you want some water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles and nods. There’s a hint of a polite smile but it mostly seems sincere. I smile back. I turn around to retreat into the kitchen once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I reach to grab a glass from one of the cabinets. My hands are shaking, too. My heart is racing, I now notice. Richie used to go on and on about how he couldn’t control his limbs when Eddie was around. Like little shocks were constantly being shot through his muscles. Eddie said something along the same lines--- I can’t think of much right now. I’m really not a fan of these feelings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first glass I grab is immediately covered in my greasy fingerprints. I cringe and put it next to the sink then grab a towel with which to grab a different glass so I don’t get it dirty. Cute Guy is drumming his fingers in the counter top and looking around the diner with wide eyes when I return to the front.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here you go.” I pass the water to him and use the towel I'm still holding to try and wipe off more of the stubborn floor grease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes us appreciatively and takes a sip. In an effort to be less of a fucking creep, I drag my eyes away from him, certain watching the guy drink would a new line of weird. “Th-thanks. I didn’t w-want to disturb y-y-you back there. Sorry if I d-did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s kind of my job to help customers, so I’m pretty sure my boss would fire me if he knew you were here and I didn’t help you.” He’d also fire me if he could hear any of the dozen thoughts that keep popping into my head. As entertaining as they are, they are so </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>unwanted at this moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now is the time he’s supposed to walk away. Walk back to his booth and sit back down, ignoring me until he needs something else. That’s what customers always do. He’s gotten his water and hasn’t even touched a menu to look through food options--- not that anything he wanted would be made well since I’m the only one here. I really shouldn’t have lied about my cooking skills during that interview. My best friend was supposed to be here the whole time so the lie we both told wouldn’t lose us our jobs. But he doesn’t walk away. He keeps drumming an uneven rhythm against the linoleum, making eye contact with me now and then before darting his eyes away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I get you something else?” I ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head snaps up, looking at me with a startled expression. Then, his features melt into a look of sheepish anxiety, amplified by the light blush creeping across his skin. “Oh, n-no, that’s okay. I’m not r-r-really hungry or anyth-thing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Um. Okay. Is there etiquette for this situation? Do I wait a few minutes before excusing myself to go silently scream into my hands in the back? Am I supposed to say something? I’ve never been good at conversations that aren’t mainly made of profanities screamed between friends, so I settle on a very forced laugh that dies as soon as it meets the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um…” Cute Guy looks up again. “I’m B-bill, by the w-way.” He nervously sticks his hand out in front of him, towards me. I’m supposed to shake his hand now? And tell him my name? That’s how normal people carry out first interactions, right? Normal people generally don’t have hands that are caked in grease and sweat, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I start to reach for his hand, more afraid of offending him than getting his hands dirty, then realize that’s stupid as hell. “My hands are kind of covered in grease right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill retracts his hand, laughing awkwardly and rubbing the back of his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, and I’m Stanley,” I add, realizing I never gave him my name. “But I just go by Stan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, h-hi, Stan.” He smiles at me, all teeth and shining eyes. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span> know how attractive he is, right? That can’t all be coincidence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, Bill.” I smile back, painfully aware of how extremely uncharming my smile is. I wait for him to cringe and back off but his smile only widens. He hops onto the stool closest to him and leans his elbows on the counter, still looking at me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D-d-do you work here a-alone?” He asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I really shouldn’t give him an honest answer. Anyone who wanders into a diner on a dead road in the middle of the night is certainly not anyone to whom I should admit that I am, in fact, the only other person here. But this guy is </span>
  <em>
    <span>hot</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>gay as hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Richie left me to make bad decision by myself. “Right now, yeah. The other guy on shift left a while ago. He had a date with his boyfriend.” A tendril of fear worms its way into my bloodstream. Around here, just saying that I know a </span>
  <em>
    <span>boy who dates boys</span>
  </em>
  <span> could get me thrown in the back of a truck and never seen again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Bill just nods, still smiling. “Th-that sorta sucks. That h-h-he left you here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shrug. “I told him he could go. We don’t get many customers around here at night, anyway.” I need to get better at having conversations. I have no idea what to say that won’t be weird but I also don’t want Bill to feel like he’s carrying the whole conversation. He is, but he shouldn’t feel that way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D-do you g-g-go to school around h-here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorta? I live in Derry. It’s--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I l-live there too!” He bites his lip a lot when he’s excited. I wish he wouldn't. It's not good for my heart. “How c-come I haven’t s-s-seen you around before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t go out much.” It’s true. An extreme understatement, but still true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At school? </span>
  <em>
    <span>How</span>
  </em>
  <span> c-could I have m-missed you at school?” He says that as if I don’t blend beyond the crowd. Some people stand out, some people blend in, and I am so unnoticeable I don’t do either. Richie, Bev, and Eddie are the only ones who can pick me out of a crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, I don’t want to sound like an asshole. “Well, what grade are you in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Senior.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So am I. We must just take different classes, is all.” I don’t care to share my classes. I really don’t want him to ask about them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t. “Wh-when do you h-have lunch?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fourth period.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hopeful light behind his eyes dies down--- but not out completely. “Mine’s f-f-fifth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still looking at me. I can feel it. It should freak me out, make me shove him out and lock myself in the diner so he can’t look at me anymore. Of course it doesn’t, though. All it does is make my skin flush and make my head go all loopy. I don’t get a lot of this kind of attention from anyone, and I am more than fine with that. Bev, Richie, and Eddie are good friends. They don’t ignore me and that is enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except, when I look up from my hands and make eye contact with Bill, the knowledge that Bill is going to take this attention away makes me want to cry. I can’t explain why. Maybe it’s just because he is the single most attractive person I have ever seen and having someone who somehow manages to simultaneously be beautiful </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>hot looking at me with a smile and pure eyes makes me feel like I might not be the worthless trash I’ve always felt I am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D-do you want to s-s-sit at the booth? It’s m-more comfortable a-and you don’t look like y-y-you have much w-w-work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes. Yes I absolutely want to sit at a booth with this guy. There are so many things I’d like to do right now and being offered the opportunity to do any of them makes my skin tingle. “Yeah, I’d like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I follow him back to the booth he chose earlier and sit opposite him. I don’t know if that was a mistake or not. Across from him I am forced to look at his gorgeous face, but at least I’m not close enough to feel his body heat like I’m sure I would be if I sat on the same side of the booth as he. He pushes aside the computer and notebook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you working on a school project or something?” I ask, gesturing at the computer and notebook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Writing, actually,” He says. He’s biting his lip and smiling again. I might die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like, creative writing stuff, you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorta, y-yeah…” There’s more he wants to say. He keeps fiddling with the binding of his notebook, fighting off a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’d like to hear what he has to say. “Would you like to tell me about it? I’d love to listen.” That earns me the biggest smile of the night. I feel myself smiling back involuntarily. There must be some divine force watching over this guy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells me about his writing, explaining the current novel on which he’s working and all the short stories he writes when he doesn’t want to work on the big project but still wants to write. It’s intensely fascinating. Not so much the writing itself--- though his works do, admittedly, sound like things I would pick up and read--- but just listening to Bill talk. The passion that seeps through his voice and the way he flips through the pages of his notebook as he shows me examples of different things, the way he grows bolder the longer I listen and the more I interact with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s intoxicating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel like I could float away into a reality where only Bill and his stories exist. That’s a terrifying thought, but also one for another day. This day, right now, in this shitty diner is dedicated to Bill. I don’t even know his last name but I am so willing to give whatever is left of this two-in-the-morning-diner-world life entirely to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At some point, long after we both lost track of time entirely, Bill breaks off his speech and starts smiling at me again. I really can’t help but smile back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan?” He asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, Bill?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“W-would you want to s-s-see me again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t even have to think about my answer. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Outside of the d-diner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Also yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins and digs out a pen from his bag then rips off a corner of one of the pages in his notebook. He scribbles something on it then folds it and passes it to me. I take it but don’t open it, keeping it tucked into my hand. “C-can I ask y-you something else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I kiss your cheek?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could kiss me anywhere. I’m high off his presence and want nothing more than for him to be close. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans across the table and I lean forward too. It’s like magnets, really. Up this close, I lose my breath. I’m not sure breathing is real. I’m not sure anything is real except Bill and his perfect eyes and lips and freckles and </span>
  <em>
    <span>smile</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And then his hand is on my jaw, turning my face just enough for him to press a sweet kiss against my cheek. It doesn’t last long enough. He retreats to his side of the booth, still smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Th-thank you, Stan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod, completely out of words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I s-sort of have to g-go now,” He says, slowly packing his things and standing up. “I’d really like t-t-to see y-you again.” So, he smiles, nods, and walks out the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hear the rumbling of a car engine very distantly. My ears are buzzing. My </span>
  <em>
    <span>skin</span>
  </em>
  <span> is buzzing. I can still feel his fingers on my jaw and his lips on my cheek. I want that again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want that again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
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